Deep Into That Darkness, Peering “Hobby, get your ass over here.” A middle-aged man with sweat trickling down his face motioned to his son to help him move the wood. “How much did you hate the fact that you were going to be a father that you got mom to agree to naming me ‘Hobson?’” A boy, in his early teens, slowly made his way over to his father, dreading the idea that they were about to work together on something. It didn’t matter to Hobson how much time this task would take; any time spent with his father was too much time. “I don’t recall saying this was question and answer time, Hobby. Don’t worry about your mother; she hasn’t been around for several years now.” Hobson tried to pass off his tear as a bead of sweat as he moved the wood with his father, not saying another word for the duration of the task. It was true, though, that Hobson’s mother had been gone for several years. After the world was turned upside down, his mother became very ill. After a while, there were only a few people who knew how to treat disease. And, by the time his mother’s condition had deteriorated into a very critical state, there was substantially less medical supplies lying around that would be useful. So, life took its course, as did death. She went out screaming into the night, in terrible pain. This was quite the opposite of how Hobson envisioned death. He was never afraid of it, but he always thought it would come peacefully. The screams of his mother stayed with Hobson every day, and sometimes surfaced in his deepest of sleeps. They were not pleasant, and through these episodes and because of the screaming, he began to hate sleeping. But, he remembered his mother as a kind and loving woman. So, at the very least, Hobson was able to take those thoughts of her with him. When he was a young boy, Hobson’s mother would read him bedtime stories has he would drift off to sleep. They were not the traditional “kiddy” bedtime stories, however. Hobson’s mother would read excerpts of Agatha Christie novels to him as he fell asleep at night. Christie was his mother’s favorite author, and over time, became Hobson’s favorite as well. Out of his entire collection of Christie’s novels (which was nowhere near the actual number of novels Christie had published in her time), his favorite was the ever-popular, And Then There Were None. Keeping in line with never being afraid of death, Hobson frequently whispered the same line over and over to himself: “Death is for other people.” At first, he did not understand its meaning, but as he kept saying it, he began to convince himself that he was going to live forever. He didn’t want to help his father, and his father didn’t care to be around Hobson, either. It was just the two of them at the house, but Hobson was rarely home. He frequently took walks by himself, thinking about what he wanted to do with his life. He aspires to be a writer, but is constantly discouraged by his father. “I don’t know why you do that shit, anyway. It’s not like you’re going to go out there and make money to support yourself, let alone me.” “Who said anything about supporting you? You haven’t supported me in anything that I do.” “You whine just like your mother. Bring that wood over here.” “Why in the hell do you keep comparing me to mom? Sometimes it seems like you didn’t even love her? That, or you are so disappointed with me that you try to bring me down by ripping into mom. I don’t get it.” “Just set the wood over there and shut up. Alright, Hobby?” “And that’s another thing; what the hell is all of this wood for?” “It’s a warm night. Even though the skies are dark and most spirits are down, it’s never a bad time for a bonfire.” Hobson didn’t quite understand his dad’s reasoning. They rarely had bonfires. In fact, the last fire Hobson remembered was when his mother was still alive. He was always happy when his mother was around. His dad had always been a hard-ass, but that never rubbed off on Hobson. Perhaps his dad thought it was supposed to. Hobson wandered to his room, exhausted from lifting block of wood after block of wood. He wanted to take a nap, but he knew falling asleep would be difficult. It always was. He didn’t have a routine; not since his mother died, at least. He tried remembering when he was happy, when she was with him and things were peaceful. He hoped those thoughts would help him drift off to sleep. However, he had a tough time. He rested in his bed, wide awake. His eyes were wide open, and tears formed. He wasn’t sure if they formed because he hadn’t blinked for so long, or because he was worn down. He didn’t know if he thought straight anymore. He just wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. Two hours passed, and still, no sleep. Hobson decided to walk downstairs to see what his dad was up to. He didn’t really care; it just seemed like something that would pass the time. “What are you doing, dad?” “Getting ready for this big fire, Hobby! Aren’t you excited?” “I’m a little confused, actually. Not to mention, I’m a little worried that you’re so excited. I don’t recall ever seeing you this excited before.” “That’s because it’s a big night! It’s going to be a big fire! This means a lot to me!” “What means a lot to you?” Hobson was very confused, as his dad quickly answered back. “Just take a look, Hobby. Take a look at what rests in front of you.” Hobson peered into the flames and smoke, and all he felt was warmth. But, his father had told him too look; really look. So, he did. A peered a little bit harder. He started seeing outlines of pages, burning quickly into the fire in front of him. He peered harder still, and on what looked like a much worn out softcover binding, he made out a portion of a name that he had no trouble recognizing: ‘Aga.. tie.’ “Dad… what the… what is that? Why?” His dad cackled in a terrifying manner. “What the what, Hobby? Why what? I told you, this was a big night for me!” Hobson was shaken. He had fallen to his knees, and he had trouble finding words to respond with. He looked up at his dad, tears in his eyes, and fire blazing behind him. “How could you? This is all I had. Agatha is all I had.” “Well, now, Agatha is burning. Can you smell it, Hobby?” “Dad, what the hell is wrong with you? You normally are a hard-ass, but this seems to be too far, even for you. You seem unwell.” “Oh no, Hobby. I am well. All is well that ends well.” Hobson could barely move. He did not want to move. He spoke softly, his voice cracking along with the fire. “In what way is this ending well? In what way are things okay? You are unwell.” His dad continued to mumble nonsense: “Everything burns, Hobby. Everything burns.” He could no longer speak to him. He could no longer be in the same place as his father. Not anymore. He stumbled back towards the house, and made his way to his room. He needed to run away, but he did not know where to go. He just had to go somewhere; find his own path. He scrambled around his room, looking for things to pack up. He slowly and sadly came to the realization that he had nothing left to pack. Everything he had was just burned in front of him. He had a photograph of his mother that he always had on him, along with his favorite book. He never went anywhere without that book. He could only imagine how he would have felt if that book would’ve been included in this “big fire.” And then there was one, he thought to himself. Understandably, several people would question Hobson’s reaction. Or, rather, his lack of reaction to his dad burning everything he ever loved; everything he cared about. But, that was Hobson. The fire burned everything he loved, but continued to turn Hobson colder and colder on the inside. He already had trouble speaking to people and connecting with people. He understood what human connection was, but ever since his mother died, he did not know how to approach anyone. She used to be that constant; she was always there for Hobson when he needed help with people. She always knew just what to say. But now, when it mattered most, Hobson could not think of what his mother would say. All he could hear was the crackling of that fire, still burning outside. His face was expressionless. He peered outside again, just to see if his dad had returned inside. He had not; he was just sitting in front of the fire motionless, but with a smile on his face. The lack of movement from his dad concerned Hobson, but only for a moment. It seemed as though he had gotten something from his father after all. Sadly, it was the ability to not feel or appear as if he was not feeling. He was ready to walk outside, to leave this place for good. He took several steps outside, nearing the fire ever-so-slowly. It was still burning as strong as before, and his dad was also sitting, as still as before. Hobson wanted to speak to him, and wanted to tell him how he felt. But, he didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know exactly how he felt. Everything that he cared about that was not already gone had just been burned in front of him, save for a photo of his mother and a copy of his favorite book. That was that, he thought. Life had taken its course. As he realized he had nothing to say to his father, he finally began walking away, not really knowing where he was going to go. His dad was occasionally talking about Hobson’s uncle, who was shacked up somewhere well north of his home. He was still breathing, last they heard. But, it had been a couple of months. Either way, that seemed like Hobson’s only option at the moment. He decided to head towards there, hoping he could last long enough to get there in once piece. It was only a day and a half, to two days at the most, away. Hobson, though, was still lingering by that crackling fire, as if he enjoyed putting himself through some sort of torture. He stared at the fire, unwilling to tear his eyes away from it. He circled it now, his eyes remaining fixed on the energy that had destroyed his possessions. He only had one book left that he loved, and one picture left that he loved. He peered one final time into the smoke. Hobson began whispering to himself. “Death is for other people… death is for other people… death is for…” his focus was broken by what he thought was movement, coming from his dad’s direction. In fact, his dad had not moved or said a word since he proclaimed his excitement after burning all of Hobson’s books. As for his dad; well, his dad just sat there, motionless and expressionless. Hobson came full circle, and was staring at his dad, almost exactly eye-to-eye. His dad’s face did not move, nor did it show any sign of wanting to move. It was too weird, Hobson thought to himself. Finally, though, Hobson had something to say. He thought there was only one thing he could say. “You burned everything I loved, everything that reminded me of mom. It is as though you burned mom, right in front of me.” And that was all Hobson could say. He turned his back one last time, and made his way towards the road. He hoped it would only take him a couple of days to find where his uncle was living, but he had no idea what he would have to face out there. Hobson was at the edge of his yard, and finally, his dad broke the silence.. “Everything burns, Hobby. Everything burns.”
“Hobby, get your ass over here.” A middle-aged man with sweat trickling down his face motioned to his son to help him move the wood.
“How much did you hate the fact that you were going to be a father that you got mom to agree to naming me ‘Hobson?’” A boy, in his early teens, slowly made his way over to his father, dreading the idea that they were about to work together on something. It didn’t matter to Hobson how much time this task would take; any time spent with his father was too much time.
“I don’t recall saying this was question and answer time, Hobby. Don’t worry about your mother; she hasn’t been around for several years now.” Hobson tried to pass off his tear as a bead of sweat as he moved the wood with his father, not saying another word for the duration of the task.
It was true, though, that Hobson’s mother had been gone for several years. After the world was turned upside down, his mother became very ill. After a while, there were only a few people who knew how to treat disease. And, by the time his mother’s condition had deteriorated into a very critical state, there was substantially less medical supplies lying around that would be useful. So, life took its course, as did death.
She went out screaming into the night, in terrible pain. This was quite the opposite of how Hobson envisioned death. He was never afraid of it, but he always thought it would come peacefully. The screams of his mother stayed with Hobson every day, and sometimes surfaced in his deepest of sleeps. They were not pleasant, and through these episodes and because of the screaming, he began to hate sleeping. But, he remembered his mother as a kind and loving woman. So, at the very least, Hobson was able to take those thoughts of her with him.
When he was a young boy, Hobson’s mother would read him bedtime stories has he would drift off to sleep. They were not the traditional “kiddy” bedtime stories, however. Hobson’s mother would read excerpts of Agatha Christie novels to him as he fell asleep at night. Christie was his mother’s favorite author, and over time, became Hobson’s favorite as well.
Out of his entire collection of Christie’s novels (which was nowhere near the actual number of novels Christie had published in her time), his favorite was the ever-popular, And Then There Were None. Keeping in line with never being afraid of death, Hobson frequently whispered the same line over and over to himself: “Death is for other people.” At first, he did not understand its meaning, but as he kept saying it, he began to convince himself that he was going to live forever.
He didn’t want to help his father, and his father didn’t care to be around Hobson, either. It was just the two of them at the house, but Hobson was rarely home. He frequently took walks by himself, thinking about what he wanted to do with his life. He aspires to be a writer, but is constantly discouraged by his father.
“I don’t know why you do that shit, anyway. It’s not like you’re going to go out there and make money to support yourself, let alone me.”
“Who said anything about supporting you? You haven’t supported me in anything that I do.”
“You whine just like your mother. Bring that wood over here.”
“Why in the hell do you keep comparing me to mom? Sometimes it seems like you didn’t even love her? That, or you are so disappointed with me that you try to bring me down by ripping into mom. I don’t get it.”
“Just set the wood over there and shut up. Alright, Hobby?”
“And that’s another thing; what the hell is all of this wood for?”
“It’s a warm night. Even though the skies are dark and most spirits are down, it’s never a bad time for a bonfire.”
Hobson didn’t quite understand his dad’s reasoning. They rarely had bonfires. In fact, the last fire Hobson remembered was when his mother was still alive. He was always happy when his mother was around. His dad had always been a hard-ass, but that never rubbed off on Hobson. Perhaps his dad thought it was supposed to.
Hobson wandered to his room, exhausted from lifting block of wood after block of wood. He wanted to take a nap, but he knew falling asleep would be difficult. It always was. He didn’t have a routine; not since his mother died, at least. He tried remembering when he was happy, when she was with him and things were peaceful. He hoped those thoughts would help him drift off to sleep. However, he had a tough time. He rested in his bed, wide awake.
His eyes were wide open, and tears formed. He wasn’t sure if they formed because he hadn’t blinked for so long, or because he was worn down. He didn’t know if he thought straight anymore. He just wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t.
Two hours passed, and still, no sleep. Hobson decided to walk downstairs to see what his dad was up to. He didn’t really care; it just seemed like something that would pass the time.
“What are you doing, dad?”
“Getting ready for this big fire, Hobby! Aren’t you excited?”
“I’m a little confused, actually. Not to mention, I’m a little worried that you’re so excited. I don’t recall ever seeing you this excited before.”
“That’s because it’s a big night! It’s going to be a big fire! This means a lot to me!”
“What means a lot to you?” Hobson was very confused, as his dad quickly answered back.
“Just take a look, Hobby. Take a look at what rests in front of you.”
Hobson peered into the flames and smoke, and all he felt was warmth. But, his father had told him too look; really look. So, he did. A peered a little bit harder. He started seeing outlines of pages, burning quickly into the fire in front of him. He peered harder still, and on what looked like a much worn out softcover binding, he made out a portion of a name that he had no trouble recognizing: ‘Aga.. tie.’
“Dad… what the… what is that? Why?”
His dad cackled in a terrifying manner. “What the what, Hobby? Why what? I told you, this was a big night for me!”
Hobson was shaken. He had fallen to his knees, and he had trouble finding words to respond with. He looked up at his dad, tears in his eyes, and fire blazing behind him.
“How could you? This is all I had. Agatha is all I had.”
“Well, now, Agatha is burning. Can you smell it, Hobby?”
“Dad, what the hell is wrong with you? You normally are a hard-ass, but this seems to be too far, even for you. You seem unwell.”
“Oh no, Hobby. I am well. All is well that ends well.”
Hobson could barely move. He did not want to move. He spoke softly, his voice cracking along with the fire. “In what way is this ending well? In what way are things okay? You are unwell.”
His dad continued to mumble nonsense: “Everything burns, Hobby. Everything burns.”
He could no longer speak to him. He could no longer be in the same place as his father. Not anymore. He stumbled back towards the house, and made his way to his room. He needed to run away, but he did not know where to go. He just had to go somewhere; find his own path.
He scrambled around his room, looking for things to pack up. He slowly and sadly came to the realization that he had nothing left to pack. Everything he had was just burned in front of him. He had a photograph of his mother that he always had on him, along with his favorite book. He never went anywhere without that book. He could only imagine how he would have felt if that book would’ve been included in this “big fire.” And then there was one, he thought to himself.
Understandably, several people would question Hobson’s reaction. Or, rather, his lack of reaction to his dad burning everything he ever loved; everything he cared about. But, that was Hobson. The fire burned everything he loved, but continued to turn Hobson colder and colder on the inside. He already had trouble speaking to people and connecting with people. He understood what human connection was, but ever since his mother died, he did not know how to approach anyone. She used to be that constant; she was always there for Hobson when he needed help with people. She always knew just what to say.
But now, when it mattered most, Hobson could not think of what his mother would say. All he could hear was the crackling of that fire, still burning outside. His face was expressionless. He peered outside again, just to see if his dad had returned inside. He had not; he was just sitting in front of the fire motionless, but with a smile on his face.
The lack of movement from his dad concerned Hobson, but only for a moment. It seemed as though he had gotten something from his father after all. Sadly, it was the ability to not feel or appear as if he was not feeling. He was ready to walk outside, to leave this place for good.
He took several steps outside, nearing the fire ever-so-slowly. It was still burning as strong as before, and his dad was also sitting, as still as before. Hobson wanted to speak to him, and wanted to tell him how he felt. But, he didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know exactly how he felt. Everything that he cared about that was not already gone had just been burned in front of him, save for a photo of his mother and a copy of his favorite book. That was that, he thought. Life had taken its course.
As he realized he had nothing to say to his father, he finally began walking away, not really knowing where he was going to go. His dad was occasionally talking about Hobson’s uncle, who was shacked up somewhere well north of his home. He was still breathing, last they heard. But, it had been a couple of months. Either way, that seemed like Hobson’s only option at the moment. He decided to head towards there, hoping he could last long enough to get there in once piece. It was only a day and a half, to two days at the most, away.
Hobson, though, was still lingering by that crackling fire, as if he enjoyed putting himself through some sort of torture. He stared at the fire, unwilling to tear his eyes away from it. He circled it now, his eyes remaining fixed on the energy that had destroyed his possessions. He only had one book left that he loved, and one picture left that he loved. He peered one final time into the smoke.
Hobson began whispering to himself. “Death is for other people… death is for other people… death is for…” his focus was broken by what he thought was movement, coming from his dad’s direction. In fact, his dad had not moved or said a word since he proclaimed his excitement after burning all of Hobson’s books.
As for his dad; well, his dad just sat there, motionless and expressionless. Hobson came full circle, and was staring at his dad, almost exactly eye-to-eye. His dad’s face did not move, nor did it show any sign of wanting to move. It was too weird, Hobson thought to himself. Finally, though, Hobson had something to say. He thought there was only one thing he could say.
“You burned everything I loved, everything that reminded me of mom. It is as though you burned mom, right in front of me.”
And that was all Hobson could say. He turned his back one last time, and made his way towards the road. He hoped it would only take him a couple of days to find where his uncle was living, but he had no idea what he would have to face out there.
Hobson was at the edge of his yard, and finally, his dad broke the silence..
“Everything burns, Hobby. Everything burns.”